Someone to Save You
by Rome Airi
Summary: One shot, sort of Russia x China -ish if you want to take it that way, or just friendship.


Even for Ivan, it was cold. Of all the days to be so below freezing, it had to be when Yao was visiting? Yao, who was so used to his Chinese winter, which couldn't hold a candle to Ivan's Russian freezing hell. Hell burns cold, doesn't it?

Involuntarily, Ivan began to worry. Now that he'd known a fraction of Yao's warmth, the cold seemed that much colder, and he didn't want his flame to die out, locked in the deadly jaws of winter, not such a distance from home but still feeling so far away.

But Ivan couldn't think like that. He couldn't allow himself to. _Who would let themselves become one with this? No one._ It's been cold for such a long time, and he'd had his sliver of heat, but now he wanted more. Was that really so absurd? Why did everyone turn him down, not seeing past the fake sweet smile to see that frostbiten child inside?

Yet, Ivan knows he simply cannot think like that. So he awaits with something kin to anxiety by the window, watching the forceful snowflakes throw themselves onto the ground, resembling so many ghosts. The others in his house are hushed by his silence, scared by what they percieve as repressed anger but in reality, closer to fear. It's these moments, when he can feel their apprehension of him and hear it in their quivering, shaky breaths, when he feels most alone in the world.

Meanwhile, Yao couldn't feel any bit of his body anymore. He fell, plunging deep in the snow, and he couldn't feel the flakes melt against his body heat. Did he have body heat anymore? How did Ivan withstand this every year? He couldn't help but feel sorry for the Russian, and wondered why he hadn't invited him to China instead. Of course, Ivan made him uncomfortable, but Yao had raised too many children. He knew that, although no one else knew better, Ivan was just an injured young boy that never recovered.

Summoning a strength he could no longer feel, Yao stood again, taking in the sharp air that felt like swallowing knives. He was so stupid to have thought that he could take Russia's winter, when his own was mild in comparison. He couldn't see much farther than three feet in front of him, and the snow was so deep and his skin was so numb and Russia's house was so far away. His panda had been right to stay in China.

Every breath was a dagger and every echoing heartbeat was like ice piercing his insides. Absently, he wondered if his hair would freeze and be locked in position when they found his dead body. This was certainly a new experience; he couldn't feel his hands or his face, but he could feel his life ebbing away slowly, like a lollipop dissolving in your mouth.

Never before had Yao felt so alone. Barely standing, balanced haphazardly on frozen legs, in a blizzard, trying desperately to reach out to _someone._ But, that's what he was always doing, wasn't it? All those children he'd offered a hand to just when they needed it most...where had he gone wrong? Why did they all leave? What had he done?

He supposed at some point he had collapsed to his knees, although he didn't feel a thing. In the distance, he saw a figure, and with their obscenely long scarf flapping about in the wind, Yao could've sworn it was an angel.

Ivan watched the sleeping Asian. After carrying him to the fireplace, he had debated what he'd want when he woke up. Ivan had gone through those winters unaccustomed to them before too; he knew it hurt like hell. Would he want vodka? Probably not; vodka is cold and he needs to be warm. Perhaps he should just ask when he wakes up.

Yao's ascension into consciousness was slow and comfortable. He could feel his hands again, and they were so warm, but his nose was still cold. His eyes opened gently like a butterfly spreading it's wings for the first time. The first sight that greeted him was a roaring fire, for which he was exceptionally glad, and a certain Russian sitting cross-legged next to him.

"Hello, Yao," Ivan said in his usual cheerful voice. "Would you like food? Something to drink?"

Yao recalled his savior. That scarf that he had so foolishly mistaken for wings...it had been Ivan's, hadn't it? "Y-you saved me?"

"Da." The Russian promptly offered a steaming drink, he had planned to ask, but had gotten so impatient. Yao took it with mild suspician, but downed a sip, and was not terribly surprised at the discovery that he couldn't taste anything yet.

"I am sorry for the dreadful weather," Ivan said, secretly feeling terrible that he had let Yao wander in the cold for so long.

Yao grinned a tiny bit and met Ivan's infinitive purple eyes. "It's not so bad when you have someone to save you."

For the first time in a long time, Ivan's smile was genuine.


End file.
